betrayed by 5‘8
htn Manlet out of form gymcell
- Joined
- Mar 17, 2022
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It started quiet.
The first girl who looked through you instead of at you.
The party where you hovered near the couch while someone else pressed her against the kitchen wall.
You told yourself it didn’t matter. That love would come later. That sex would come when it was supposed to.
It didn’t.
You kept growing older, but not along the same line as everyone else.
They spoke in a language of glances and touches and inside jokes you never learned.
You just listened.
And waited.
You watched them pile up memories—messy, imperfect, but real.
Nights where something happened. Mornings with someone's hair on the pillow beside them.
And you?
You became a collection of what never happened.
You became a museum of near-misses and imagined touch.
And now? Now it’s not just awkward—it’s grotesque.
Your body has aged without being used.
You flinch when others touch you casually—not from trauma, but from absence.
You carry desire like a loaded gun with no target.
It trembles in your hands, but no one sees the weight. No one volunteers to take it.
You’ve rehearsed it so many times.
How you’d kiss.
How you’d undress her, gently or rough, depending on the fantasy.
But when you’re actually with someone—even close—it breaks.
Your hands forget what they’re for.
Your voice tightens.
Your dick doesn’t work, not because it’s broken, but because you are.
You’re not nervous. You’re cursed
Years of frictionless nights and clenched teeth have hollowed you out.
You didn’t miss out on sex.
You missed the becoming.
The thing that makes people sexually real.
And the worst part?
You’re still horny.
Your body wants what your soul has learned it can’t have.
You ache like a teenager. You fantasize like an animal.
But there’s no place to put it anymore.
It just circulates—endlessly. Shamefully. Desperately.
You’re not rejected. You’re not unlucky.
You’re just sexually irrelevant.
You don’t haunt women’s thoughts.
You don’t get described in giggly conversations.
You’re the man who wasn’t part of the story.
And if someone touches you now?
You’ll flinch again.
Because it’s too late.
It’s not even about virginity anymore.
It’s about rotting untouched.
The first girl who looked through you instead of at you.
The party where you hovered near the couch while someone else pressed her against the kitchen wall.
You told yourself it didn’t matter. That love would come later. That sex would come when it was supposed to.
It didn’t.
You kept growing older, but not along the same line as everyone else.
They spoke in a language of glances and touches and inside jokes you never learned.
You just listened.
And waited.
You watched them pile up memories—messy, imperfect, but real.
Nights where something happened. Mornings with someone's hair on the pillow beside them.
And you?
You became a collection of what never happened.
You became a museum of near-misses and imagined touch.
And now? Now it’s not just awkward—it’s grotesque.
Your body has aged without being used.
You flinch when others touch you casually—not from trauma, but from absence.
You carry desire like a loaded gun with no target.
It trembles in your hands, but no one sees the weight. No one volunteers to take it.
You’ve rehearsed it so many times.
How you’d kiss.
How you’d undress her, gently or rough, depending on the fantasy.
But when you’re actually with someone—even close—it breaks.
Your hands forget what they’re for.
Your voice tightens.
Your dick doesn’t work, not because it’s broken, but because you are.
You’re not nervous. You’re cursed
Years of frictionless nights and clenched teeth have hollowed you out.
You didn’t miss out on sex.
You missed the becoming.
The thing that makes people sexually real.
And the worst part?
You’re still horny.
Your body wants what your soul has learned it can’t have.
You ache like a teenager. You fantasize like an animal.
But there’s no place to put it anymore.
It just circulates—endlessly. Shamefully. Desperately.
You’re not rejected. You’re not unlucky.
You’re just sexually irrelevant.
You don’t haunt women’s thoughts.
You don’t get described in giggly conversations.
You’re the man who wasn’t part of the story.
And if someone touches you now?
You’ll flinch again.
Because it’s too late.
It’s not even about virginity anymore.
It’s about rotting untouched.
